


Veilchenblau

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 19:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15758376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Kanafinwë guides Eönwë through a new sensation.





	Veilchenblau

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for auniverseforgotten’s “Eönwë/Maglor [a kiss where it hurts]” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/176075204220/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own the Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s growing increasingly less unusual to see Eönwë in the gardens outside their lands, floating about the entrance to their manor with wide, interested eyes and curious hands. There are many homes in Valinor with as much beauty in their plots, but Fëanáro employs workers as skilled with the earth as he is at his forge, and the splendor of their halls, both inside and out, is legendary. Kanafinwë’s always proud to find his friend at the gate, prouder still to invite him in for proper tours.

Little has changed since Eönwë’s last visit, but he still eyes each and every bud as though it’s just brand new. He comes to Kanafinwë’s side when Kanafinwë comes out to meet him, ducking into a graceful bow and greeting, “Welcome back, Eönwë.”

“Thank you for your hospitality again, my songbird,” Eönwë smoothly replies, and his eyes finally shift from a bed of begonias to Kanafinwë’s smiling face. Eönwë’s gaze seems to make him blossom, and he feels another song coming to his lips—a melody, lyrics, intonation and every kind of inspiration that he could so desire. But before he can offer to fetch his harp and serenade his favourite Maia, Eönwë asks, “Will you show me around once more?”

Kanafinwë bows his agreement, and he ushers Eönwë through the wide, towering gates. Eönwë could fly over them, but he always waits politely on the outskirts to be invited in. The gardens immediately outside their grounds are kept as lovely as those within. When it comes to practical forms of art, Fëanáro spares no expense. Kanafinwë enjoys guiding Eönwë in and off one of the main paths, slowly twisting around the manor to walk through the well-clipped hedges towards the white gazebo. Kanafinwë often plays there, and Eönwë often listens. Eönwë strokes the leaves of sunflowers as they go, and Kanafinwë walks slowly, allowing Eönwë to bask in the glow of natural beauty.

“Tyelko wishes to install a fountain outside the East wing,” Kanafinwë idly comments, pausing as Eönwë reaches the roaches. They were only seedlings when he last came by, and he eyes them now with full appreciation. “Moryo, however, would prefer the area for his training yard...”

Kanafinwë pauses as Eönwë reaches out, stroking two long fingers down one of the rose’s stems. Before Kanafinwë can protest, Eönwë brushes over a thorn. Breath hitching, his hand hurriedly withdraws, and he turns his hand over to see the pinprick of blood blooming on the tip of his index finger.

Kanafinwë stares at the speck of red, darker than the rose petals—he didn’t know Maiar could bleed. He didn’t know they could be pierced. Eönwë’s eyes are unusually wide around the edges as he stares at his wound, and then he comments faintly, as though he can’t believe it himself, “I... _hurt_.”

“I am sorry,” Kanafinwë murmurs, almost numb himself. “Roses can be capricious...” 

Eönwë glances at him. Kanafinwë shifts uncomfortably. He’s seen his brothers bruised in the training yards, even seen a few burns at the forge when they were young and inexperienced and their father’s lessons were unforgiving. He’s seen far worse, but those were different, because those were done to bodies that knew, that understood, and to see a _Maiar_ in pain seems sacrilegious, no matter how slight that pain might be. He wonders vaguely if Eönwë’s ever felt anything like it before. It looks as though he hasn’t.

Because Kanafinwë can think of nothing else to do, he does what his mother might’ve done to him, the first few times that he felt such trouble. He reaches out to take Eönwë’s hand in both of his, cradling it close, and he bends to press a soft kiss over the cut. Then he holds his thumb against Eönwë’s, pressing down to stop the blood. He can’t imagine Eönwë will take long to heal—surely his body, even if it’s not his true form, is more resilient than an elf’s. But Kanafinwë doesn’t _know_ , only hopes.

As he keeps Eönwë’s hand clasped in his, Eönwë’s eyes lift, his expression softening from its earlier surprise. He says, “I did not know that elves could heal in such a way.”

Kanafinwë’s lips twitch at the corner, threatening a smile. “We cannot, but a show of affection often soothes the virility of pain.”

Eönwë looks thoughtful. Kanafinwë determines the pressure and time enough for such a small cut and withdraws his hand. New blood doesn’t rise. 

Eönwë gently asks, “Might I have another?”

Kanafinwë’s smile grows. He takes Eönwë’s hand back in his, and he leans in to kiss Eönwë’s cheek. When Kanafinwë next lets go, the ghost of the cut has faded, the skin unblemished and whole.

They walk on, but now Eönwë keeps his hands near Kanafinwë instead of on the garden.


End file.
